Sometimes Dead is Deader
by Mark Cannon
Summary: I am so sorry for the cliffhanger. I finished the second chapter 2 days after and couldn't think of how to end it, so just never thought to upload it. And I really hate when writers leave you hanging. Ending is the dream part I have to make it make sense
1. Chapter 1

I am on my way home, running from a giant.

Well, no. That really is not the most accurate description of the horror lurking behind me. A giant typically is portrayed as the type of creature with reasoning, which can be tempted, bribed, perhaps even persuaded.

The growling, swiping monstrosity shuffling at my back is nothing like one of these. Its sole thought is to eviscerate, masticate, and tear apart everything that makes me. To devour me, and make me like it is.

Also running is not the best description of the action I am undertaking. I am sprinting with all of my might, ignoring the burning side-stiches, stretching my cramping muscles on the fly, face drenched in sweat. My heart is about to pound out of my chest and I am gasping and panting like a 23-year old Basset Hound. Not my most shining moment. Kind of embarrassing how I got into this mess, actually.

The beast which is admirably keeping up with my wind sprints despite the fact that rigor mortis must be, by now, setting in had all too-recently been the highlight of my day. I drugged him in the early morning hours as he stumbled towards his car in a drunken haze—well at least I saved him the stress of driving home drunk at that hour. Brought him to my clean room at his own safe house. I incorporate irony into my work whenever possible. He woke up naked, bound to my table, as I poised over him with my scalpel, ready to cut into the soft fleshy cheek muscles. It was all going just as I had planned.

Then the entire world flipped upside-down on me.

Glass shattered behind me and a window-frame shivered and splintered. When I turned around to look, feeling no fear really, feeling mostly annoyance that someone had invaded my privacy and contaminated my clean room, _something_, which resembled one of the prostitutes I had seen hanging outside the bar came screeching towards me. I backed up a pace, still holding the scalpel up. She looked at me, looked at my prone captive, who was by now thrashing and moaning about, deduced who the easier meal would be, and turned her attention towards him. And by turning her attention, I mean that she opened her mouth wide and just dug into the man's skull. He was screaming in outrage now, begging and pleading with me to let him go, let him get out. Then she somehow broke through the hard bone of his cranium and chomped into man's gray matter, and his incoherent protests died away with a splutter and a "_Bluh—"_

All I could do was stare, wide-eyed at the horrific drama unfolding before me. This had all been going as planned—actually, it was still going quite well. The deed was done. The man was clearly dead. Perhaps not by my hand, but I was learning something about what happens to the body when the brain is compromised. I had always figured that the people I killed were the scum of the Earth and that they deserved to suffer longer, like their own victims. That was why I always went for the heart. I am a blood expert. It is kind of my thing. Plus I think that these unprosecuted criminals who have gone slinking away through one of the cracks in the corrupted justice system deserve to feel their life ebbing away from them slowly. Perhaps I have been too soft on them, though. Watching this man twitch and writhe as his brain was gradually being consumed—the hooker was dining on it like it was filet mignon—I could think of no worse suffering than feeling not just your life leaving your body, but feeling everything that was you, everything you had ever thought of, dreamed about, or considered, disappearing into a prostitute's stomach.

That was when I really got annoyed. This was supposed to be my kill, and I wanted it done the way I liked it. This man had been trussed up like a French hen to satisfy my killing impulse, not to satiate the hunger of one of the creatures of the night. "Hey bitch," I said quietly over the terrible gargling, chewing, gagging. The bitch glanced my way, lips caked in blood, bits of the cerebral cortex dripping down her chin. "You stole my kill." I drove the scalpel straight between her eyes and she sank to the ground like a rock.

It had not gone that badly, to be quite truthful. This thing had not even been done by my hand. Ordinarily I would clean the scene anyway, just in case some wackjob saw me walking around the bar or the man's place, but something told me I had to keep moving, and I really did not want to be around this oddly-twitching duo any longer than I had to be. It kind of reminded me of the classical painting of Mary weeping at Jesus' bier, and not in a good way. The way her outstretched arm was still caught up on the table as she went down on her knees did look almost reverent, except for the fact that there was a thin trail of cerebral fluid attached to her fingers and trailing into the man's opened skull.

Yeah, to be honest, I really wanted to get the fuck out of there.

I carefully stripped off the plastic wrap which I had draped around myself and threw into a Hefty bag. One bag for my stuff instead of many containing all that had once been this man. It was kind of relief that I did not have much work left to do, even though I kind of enjoy the action of scrubbing a scene down when I am done with it, and disposing of the body in neat pieces that I create. It is kind of cathartic, a creation through destruction thing. It is my art.

I left the cascade of plastic wrap through the gap that the bitch had torn in it, and headed to the window, just to peek outside and see if anyone was walking around outside.

There were, but they weren't people.

The block was jammed with shambling horrors. I have seen a lot of zombie movies—can anyone tell me why the living dead in those films always look so composed, so organized? I guess it's meant to be indicative of the human spirit and how even facing death people fight on to the end. That's why most of them have one bite wound on them and signs of decomposition. That's it. No death-wound. No multiple-bite marks. Occasionally you get to see one really gross zombie who has the total package, torso-hole, bloody mouth, missing/broken limbs—but these are the exception rather than the rule, usually meant to rouse you at a time when you think the hero is safe. Where do they get their information about zombies? Do they worry about shocking our sensibilities or are the special effects teams just that lazy? Generally there are no hanging pieces, no total eviscerations, usually the faces and heads are completely intact! And all zombies want to do is eat brains! Isn't there some kind of logical fallacy there?

Well, this is America, obese people make the best meals, and in reality, someone bitten by a zombie might not get away to transform somewhere nice and quiet. When I say these people were half-eaten, man I mean it. Many of them seemed to be accident victims, probably thrown from their cars and then set upon by the undead, perhaps even left trapped in their cars while being feasted upon. I saw one lady with her lung hanging out. A guy with the palms of his hands shredded off, leaving a trail of pus as he walked. Then there was one thing crawling along down the sidewalk which nearly made me weep. Those movies usually show you one poor bastard who gets caught with his pants down and gets pig-piled by a hungry crowd of the monsters. They show him screaming as the beasts kneel down and start to consume him, and usually they show one of them pulling out and eating his intestine like a big fat noodle while the rest peel back his skull like a sardine can and begin feasting on his brain. Well, why don't they ever show you the desperate, writhing horror that this character becomes? This was such a man that I saw making his way down the street, trying to fit in with the more able-bodied zombies. His midsection had been entirely torn away, causing so much structural damage to his musculature and probably severing his spinal column, yet something had stuck his legs to his body, probably nothing more than tendons and the skin of his ass, and he was dragging them behind him like a kid drags a stick in the dirt, not even thinking about it, just leaving a trail. My heart really went out that zombie. I wished his useless lower limbs would just get severed so he could forget about them and move on with his afterlife.

I don't know how I had not heard the noise of the zombie Apocalypse. I just really get into the zone when I am working. I had chosen a quiet night in the middle of the week to practice my craft, no one had been around when I moved the man to his dirty apartment and waited for him to woke up, and when I had heard some screaming a while back I had just chalked it up to city life and assumed someone was throwing a party. To my credit there were remarkably few traffic mishaps to alert me that something was wrong. Cars were stopped in the middle of the street, driver's doors left open, but only one had gone off-roading, leaving tire tracks on the street and curb, busting open a fire hydrant which was still spouting water all over the scene. I tried to see if the driver had made it. The door was open but one of the other cars blocked my view of the ground there. I could see a zombie hunched over something there, but whether it was a body, an arm, a pile of trash, or a cat, I will never know. As I watched, a Nissan Altima joined the fray, slamming into the back of a sedan with its lights on. I waited to see if anyone would get out of the car, but no one did. The zombies started to congregate towards the source of the noise and I figured that this was my best chance to get the fuck out of here and start running.

I made for the window (in my panic I had already stowed my gloves and did not want to leave prints on the door—yeah I know, still thinking like a crime scene analyst, even though the entire city is obviously destroyed) and a remarkably well-preserved zombie popped up out of the bushes to say, "Graaaaah!" I guess it goes to show that in real life, sometimes the less gross things are scarier, because they are in relatively better health and have the means to get you.

I backed up a step as the thing tried to crawl in, upsetting the curtains in the process. The curtain rod fell down and I caught it neatly in my hand, gripping it tightly in a batter's pose.

The thing at my feet was getting tangled up in the curtains and looked up at me helplessly, seeming to be almost pleading with me. "Rile?" it inquired.

"Allow me," I said, tore the curtains from the rod and bashed the thing's skull in with it. It ceased its endless yammering and began to soak its essence into the carpet. "A little club soda will get that right out," I advised. And looked back almost guiltily at the former resident. He won't be getting his security deposit back.

What I saw when I looked back at the table chilled my blood, though. The thing that had been fastened so securely to my operating table had managed to wriggle most of the way free, and was glaring at me with the hatred that only an unholy denizen of Hell could muster. I stepped over the creature that was still halfway stuck in the window and vaulted over the bushes, calling back, "Sorry to leave right after dinner."

I began to hightail it toward the direction of my apartment, not even thinking about my car. The parking lot was too dangerous, it was crawling with the living dead, and I would not make it more than two feet on these packed roads. Instead I headed for the sidewalk, trying to make as little noise as possible. Most of the creatures were occupying themselves with the erstwhile occupant of the Altima, so they paid little attention to me. I paused for only half a second at the poor crawling horror, who had made it as far as the curb and was calling out plaintively to its mates, "Grrrrrrrrurh," which I guess is zombie for, "Save me a femur." I gave him a quick curb-stomping to put it out of its misery and continued on my merry way, which is when I heard the snapping of storm window and the crashing of the rest of the windowframe. The bald man I was supposed to have killed, naked as the day he was born, was standing on the windowsill. It tripped over the half-stuck zombie and went sprawling into the bushes, but I can only assume that it quickly extricated itself and, ignoring the wreck in the street, came sprinting after me. I can only assume these things because I was already half a block away, but when I looked back, it was coming after me like a track star and I knew that I was well into big trouble. Why do the movies always show these things as slow-moving targets?

I made my way back home through the chaos, stepping over broken bottles, bodies and body parts, jumping over cars, dodging zombie addicts or real ones (no way of telling with them, really)—it's all a blur now, my mad, half-remembered flight, the undead killer at my heels. I have no idea how I made it but soon enough my apartment complex loomed in the distance.

I fumbled with my keys and almost dropped them as I raced up the stairs. I thought that a mindless being such as the one chasing me would have difficulty navigating the unfamiliar terrain, but he took them two at a time like a schoolboy, bounding after me like I was a firefly or a new puppy. He tripped on the top stair and howled in outrage, which gave me precious extra seconds to fit the key to the lock and turn it. He was on top of me before I could even get the key out, so I just turned the knob and went in, slamming the door in his face and pointlessly pulling the chain. Screaming in fury, he began to pound on the door like the world's most persistent Jehovah's Witness. "Sorry, we don't want any," I mumbled as I dragged a chair over and braced it against the doorknob. "I gave at the office."

Now what? I had only minutes before the thing caved the door in. As I had entered the apartment complex I had noticed that our race had drawn the wrong kind of attention, and a mob would soon ensue on my small second-story landing, a throng which might soon discover that these glass walls give easily and that the curtains I had drawn were only cloth, not stone. They were stupid, but had a way of relentlessly attacking a problem til it was solved and its brains were in their mouth. You had to kind of admire that about them.

I glanced at my air conditioner, wanting nothing more at that moment than just to kick back, put on a romantic comedy, and enjoy the feeling of power I got from running my hand over my slides, knowing that each of them was once a living, breathing, murdering human being. But I only had minutes to act. I had to leave this place—it was indefensible and surrounded by way too many people who would easily become fodder for the nightmare spreading over my city. I would have to pack light. I only got as far as retrieving the tools of my trade from their hiding space and was in the bedroom when I heard the front door give way and smash, the chain snap. I headed for the window, which immediately burst open at me with harsh grating, tinkling noises, and what seemed like hundreds of pale, rubbery hands thrust in at me. I backed away, cursing as I realized I had left the bedroom door wide open. There was no way to get to it now, with all of the hands, so I worried my kit open and tried to calmly select a tool, though by now my hands were shaking, perhaps understandable with an undead serial killer standing on the threshold like an irate husband who comes home early from work to find his wife naked in bed. Understandable, but it wasn't helping me. I forced my nerves to work themselves through their distress, took a deep breath, and like he usually does when I'm facing insurmountable problems like a horde of the undead at my doorstep, dad popped in for a visit.

"You know, my boy," he said in that wise, world-weary voice, "You are really up shit creek without a paddle here."

"Thanks, father, I hadn't noticed."

"I'm not even sure what advice I can give you here, son," he continued. "All I can say is, even if you survive this, your life is going to be a living Hell from here on out and well," he paused, as if unsure if what he had to say next was the right thing to do, then he calmly advocated my suicide, "you kill killers for a living. You know how to do it, and you've got a whole array of choices right here. You stop their lives before they can cause suffering to other people's and…well…if one of those…things gets a hold of you, you will become like they are. Just a mindless, eating, innocent-slaughtering cannibal. You might even kill your own child if you do."

"And who will protect him if I die?"

He was silent. "I don't know, but I think everyone is going to be going the way of this plague, soon enough. Maybe it's better if he does die quickly…but at least it wouldn't be you doin' it to him."

"Dad, there is a murdering cannibal in my living room with the physique of a triathalon runner. Even if I were to slit my throat right now, don't you think he'd catch me before I died and at least get one good chunk of my flesh while I tried to fight him off weakened from blood loss?"

"There are faster ways, and you know it," Harry offered helpfully. "I know you're trying to avoid this conversation right now, and our time is short, but sooner or later this problem is going to haunt you. End it first. Don't let them get to you."

"Gee, thanks for the pep talk." Something was wrong. My dad was never such a figure of despair. Was this really the end of the world? What if he's right—what if I'm the only living person left, and with no one around to kill me, would I just pointlessly wander the surface of the Earth for the rest of eternity, until I happened to tumble into a pit and smash my head, stick my face in a garbage disposal, or get run down by some runaway factory equipment? These are the sorts of things which occupy my mind now.

That, and the huge, burly convict missing half his skull staring me down from the doorway.

"Hey, big fella," I said placatingly, trying to soothe the madness. His or mine, I wasn't sure. "You look like you're gonna blow your top…wanna talk about it…?"

The inhuman snarl he gave as he stepped into the room showed me that he definitely did not. The hands reaching in through the window grasped at him, brushing him, holding him. He pushed them violently aside, breaking a few of the older, more decomposed limbs in the process. One of the hands grabbed his arm, held it, and would not let go. He roared then, and pulled at it, tugging with all the strength in that arm, then finally grabbed it with his other arm and pulled with all of his supernatural might. I was afraid he would tug another zombie right into the room with him, as if the creatures rapidly filing into my living room through the smashed front door were not enough on my plate, but with the brute-force approach which seemed organic to and characteristic of the zombies, he simply tore the limb straight from the torso outside the window and held it over his head triumphantly as he continued his advance on me, looking as if he was about to bludgeon me with it.

I clutched at the pick I had selected. It was the longest, pokiest thing in my kit. I had no idea how I was going to drive it into his head without getting bitten, but I had to try. It was times like these that I wished I wasn't such a precise lunatic—here I was trying to sop up an advancing army of the undead with surgical tools, when what I really wanted was a couple of chainsaws.

I kept talking. It made me feel better, though it did not seem to do much for the damaged psyche of the abomination making its way around my bed. Backing up slowly, I introduced myself. "I'm not sure we've met. My name is Dexter Morton. I am a blood-spatter analyst. My interests include murders and executions. I also enjoy long excursions on my boat, mostly in the dead of night. You might say I dabble in the waste disposal business. I consider it my civic duty to take scumbags like you," (did he just growl a little louder and quicken his pace…how in the Hell does this thing understand that I'm insulting it when most of its brains are running down his shirt?) "who have gotten away with murder, and make sure that you are brought to justice. It's what I am about to do to you right now. No different. You just happen to be a…you're a rerun. As long as you walk this Earth, and wish to harm the innocent, I still have to end your existence."

_I just have no fucking clue how I'm meant to do that._


	2. Night Of The Living Dex

The huge serial killer zombie advanced on me. I held the surgical tool up, ready to drive it through his eye as soon as he made his move, hoping it wouldn't be too late.

I reflected on what had happened—how had the situation have gotten away from me like this? I've had a lot of people strapped to my table, and not one has ever popped up after dying.

The undead murderer loomed over me, growling, moaning, drooling. He had finally slowed down. Now I really wanted him to get on with it, and he was stalling. I blinked the sweat from my eyes, clenched my jaw, and said, "Get it over with already, big boy."

Riveted by my presence, he drew closer. He was only a few feet away now and I tightened my grip on my weapon, ready to strike. He opened his mouth and dipped his head—

Just then, small-arms automatic fire outside caused him to look to his left. I started too, but quickly recovered my composure—taking advantage of his momentary inattention, I reached out and took hold of the lamp. Turning back, he lunged at my arm and tried to bite it. He got a big mouthful of glass and ceramic instead. Stunned by the blow, he stared at me, chewing the broken pieces absentmindedly. I brought it down again, hard, shattering the rest of it against his temple, and he fell down at my feet. Just to be sure it was done, I extricated the metal center and drove it down as hard as I could into the back of his head.

As the blood-dimmed fury cleared from my head, I realized that the gunfire was still going on outside. The groping, grasping hands were disappearing from the window. I watched them slide out as their blood spattered over the window pane. Then the firing stopped and I heard a familiar voice over the sound of the clip reloading: "Get the fuck away from my place! Motherfucker! That's not food, that's my-!" The firing resumed, and the remaining zombies on the landing were quickly mowed down. I grinned in spite of the situation. Big sister was home.

I saw her walk through the ruined door and found myself staring down the barrel of an Uzi. "Not a zombie!" I called, throwing my hands up in the air. She just nodded and quickly dispatched all of the rest of the creatures that were wandering around my place. "God!" she cried. "I hope that was the last fucking one."

"I kinda doubt it, Deb." Stepping over the gruesome corpses, I made my way over to her and gave her a big hug. "Thanks for saving my life."

"Forget it, Dex." She gave me a quick kiss on the cheek and said, "We have to get the fuck out of here. We'll have time for the reunion later. Where's Harrison?"

"Not here, thank God." I had no idea where my son was, but the body sprawled over his highchair made me appreciate how fast we had to find him. I noticed a note tacked to the fridge and walked over. It was from the nanny.

_Took Harrison for a walk. Back in a half hour._

"Totally…Doubtful," I muttered.

"Where is she?" called Deb from her bedroom. I could hear her packing up a duffel bag.

Then I noticed another note, this one hastily scribbled and left on the table next to the phone.

_Museum Tower. 13__th__ floor_

I repeated the address out loud and Deb called back, "She took Harrison fucking _Downtown_ in this mess? What is wrong with her?"

"Good help is hard to find these days," I said, kicking one of the zombies in the head. I rarely get frustrated and try to cover up those emotions, but right now I was trembling. My son was missing, out there in this Hell somewhere. I had to find him. "Let's go. Are you ready?"

I walked to the bedroom and she flipped a .38 caliber handgun at me. I caught it and stared at the weapon in distaste. I prefer my kills close up and personal.

As if reading my mind, she indicated the killer's tools spread out on the bed. "What's this?"

My heart leaped up into my throat and sank back slowly. I felt the lie spring to my lips before I could stop it. "They called me in to investigate a murder scene this morning," I said, indicating the guy resting comfortably on the floor. "These were his tools—I was examining them for spatter and ran out still holding it, I guess. Wasn't exactly dead…looks like I get the day off."

She nodded, seeming satisfied with the explanation. "No one's going to be checking up on this. I was down at the station and…let's just say...if you show up on Monday you better bring a box of brains instead of doughnuts."

I was relieved she wouldn't be checking up on my story, but at the same time I thought about all the people I had worked with over the years, reduced to mindless cannibals. "I think I'll be calling in dead. Where'd you get the piece then?"

"Fucking gang member tries to bust my head with it like he was cracking a fucking walnut this morning."

"Could be useful, if we can find another clip."

She nodded and picked up my bag of killing tools. It was so surreal to see her standing there in her bedroom, closing it up the way I had done so many times in the past. "These could come in handy too. Let's bring them with us." She handed me the pack.

"Great idea…"

Miami was closed.

We drove up to a huge blockade when we tried to enter the downtown area. The whole place was under quarantine. A National Guardsman came out from around a pile of sandbags rigged with barbed-wire, pointing an assault rifle at me.

"Jesus!" Deb started shouting out the window. "Don't point that thing at my brother, you asshole! He's not a zombie! You ever seen one drive a car?"

"Easy, big sister," I said, placating her. I kept my stare on the guy, though, and my hand on the handle of the .38. "It's probably just their policy."

"State your business." He spoke in a flat monotone as he wearily put his gun up. Clearly he was getting tired of screening for the undead. I relaxed a little. The guy was just doing his job.

"Couple of members of the living organism club, seeking passage to find my baby boy." I reached for my credentials, but he was already waving us on before I had finished talking.

Then he spied something in the distance and said, "Hurry."

From behind the blockade I heard someone call out something, sounded like, "Riot," then nothing else, because all sound was blotted out by the crisp, distinct rattle of machine guns.

"Oh, my fucking God…" I heard from the passenger seat during a brief lull in the gunfire. I couldn't bring myself to look back, and drove carefully through the gate. The National Guardsman followed briskly behind, slamming it shut behind us with a clatter.

"They turned the whole fucking city into a giant fort," she said incredulously. Here everything seemed completely normal. Traffic was flowing, people were walking on the sidewalks, talking on cell phones, even laughing. "Give them a week and they'll have a drawbridge up."

"It'll do more good than the barbed wire…come on, let's go find Harrison."

I like standing outside skyscrapers at the close of the business day. I imagine that the workers are blood cells pumping through an artery out of a gigantic, pulsating heart. They break around me, uncomfortable, jostling each other not to touch me, to get too close to me, me, interfering with their daily function. I was like the blockage that kept them moving faster around me—an infected blood vessel, a tumor. They have no choice but to go around—I could stop any one of them if I chose and end their endless, robotic flow. As long as they keep feeding the system, as long as they do not cull others from the flock or interfere with my task, they are beneath my notice. I allow them to keep on their daily rounds. It makes me feel powerful in a way, knowing that I have that ability.

It was unbelievable—all of these people going on with their everyday lives while the world fell completely apart outside of the city. Instead of buying survival gear, spending time with loved ones, saying goodbye, they went to the office. They must have total faith in their government to stop the problem. But there is no way to stop it, I realized, watching them on their mindless march. The army could kill every last undead creature on the planet and we would still have a zombie problem, because people like these carried that mindset with them wherever they went. They breathe, their hearts beat, but they are zombies all the same, living lives that are repetitive, robotic, and utterly without purpose.

I am never sure whether I should pity or envy them.

We entered the Museum Tower as the last of the businessmen were trickling out. Many gave us dark looks, giving us a wide berth. I couldn't say I blamed them. We were a reminder of what was really going on out there. In ordinary times, a woman holding an Uzi with a revolver stuck down the crotch of her pants and a man nervously clutching a looted police-issue shotgun while weighted down with edged weapons probably would not be permitted inside an office complex.

We got on the central elevator as a group of suited men and skirted women rushed anxiously past us, pleased to leave us well behind them. I wondered how many of them were going to be spending time with their families tonight, those who still had them, and how many would be catching up on paperwork.

"Hold the door." I had spotted an abandoned handtruck loaded with restaurant supplies and wheeled it into the elevator, pushed it to the back of the car, and punched the number 13.

When we got to the 13th floor, we were faced with a long corridor, a row of endless-seeming non-descript doors. "How the fuck do we find her in this mess?" said Deb.

I put up a hand to shush her and listened. I thought I had heard…

"There." I ran towards the small noises I heard—uncontrolled weeping: the nanny's voice, sobbing. I stopped at door 1323 and looked back at Deb. She held the Uzi up and gave a slight nod, so I turned the doorhandle and went inside.

She saw me and ran over, sobbing, and threw her arms around me. "Oh my God, Dexter. I'm so sorry!" I held her stiffly, feeling awkward. I'm not much for human contact, and this was my second hug of the day. I was more concerned about Harrison than comforting this nanny, but I couldn't get to him with the crazy woman clinging to me, so I inclined my head towards Debbie. She got my meaning immediately and picked up my son. I think he's put in enough time sitting around dead bodies. He wasn't even crying this time. I hoped that didn't mean he was getting used to it.

"Calm down, just take it easy. What happened here?"

"He came after Harrison!" she pointed accusingly at the corpse. "I came here to find my husband, and he tried to eat your son! I didn't have a choice…"  
My blood froze on hearing that. I had left my son in her care so I could go off and kill someone who would be dead now anyway, and he had almost become one of the lifeless horrors.

I tried to make my tone even, to belie the angst I was feeling. I turned away to hide my face and took Harrison from Deb, who seemed shocked to see the tears standing in my eyes. This was my son! Didn't she understand? I couldn't be calm and collected all the time! To be completely disaffected, like an emotionless—nevermind.

"They have some kind of rudimentary logic. If they see an easy meal, they go for it. There was nothing of your husband left by the time you saw him—he coldly assessed the situation and decided the baby would be easier to eat than you. That's all." I bobbed Harrison up and down and stared at the body in front of the desk. "Thank you for saving my son. It couldn't have been easy…I mean…I know it wasn't him anymore but it looked like…your quick action saved my boy. When we get out of this…you're getting a raise."

Her face crumbled and she broke down again, sinking to the ground, wailing in abject despair. Deb and I exchanged glances. I wasn't sure she was ever going to get over this. She was a liability, for sure but…I owed her my son's life. We couldn't just abandon her here…could we?

"just leave me," she sobbed. "Leave me with him."

"We can't do that," said Deb, and looked at me. When I stayed silent, her mouth dropped open, and she kicked me in the ankle.

"Yes," I hissed, glaring at Deb. "You've said your goodbyes. We have to keep moving, before…"

The words died on my mouth. The two ladies turned and looked at me quizzically. I put a hand up so they would stay quiet. Then I heard it again.

Thump…thump…and then a soft metallic rattle.


End file.
